


Beloved Enemy

by TheSherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, Daddy Kink, Doctor John Watson, M/M, No period-typical homophobia, Omega Heat, Omega Sherlock, Romantic John Watson, Shy Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSherlocked/pseuds/TheSherlocked
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a young man of good family, and no fortune. He does not wish to get married, but a stipulation in his father’s will and a physical issue on the part of his elder brother, leaves him little choice. What Sherlock does not know is that a certain newly-inherited Lord has his eyes set on a particular stroppy young nobleman, and it’s taken years to bring things to this point. It's set to be a battle, but there can only be one real victor. Right?





	Beloved Enemy

The condensation was clinging to the window as he gazed out, once in awhile a lazy drop finally giving into the pull of gravity, sliding down the pane to no doubt puddle somewhere along the windowsill where he could not make it out. The gray beyond that point was almost impenetrable, only an outline of the heavy concrete column that marked the edge of the drive, visible to the young gentleman that stood inside. It mirrored his mood, if not wonderfully. He did not touch the glass, but he could feel the cold coming off of it, and that –to his mind- mirrored what was happening with the older man currently speaking to him.

For behind him, Lord Sherrinford was droning on about family responsibility, and the crisis that awaited them if the young man did not perform his duty. It was nothing that Sherlock had not heard before, nothing he hadn’t expected, at least to the present point. It did not mean he continued to stand quietly as it was laid bare, again, did not mean he would simply give in this time.

“But why me, Mycroft? You are the Lord now, with father dead. I’m nothing. Just the second son. I inherit a small parcel of land from mother’s estates when she passes, but beyond that all I have it whatever dowry you can peace together from what is left of the money we DO have.” He was bristling, trying to fight off his only sworn enemy. The agitation has given his normally low-pitched voice a breathless quality, and he hated how childlike it sounded to his ears. For all that, right now he hated his own brother more, the man that should have been looking out for him, not condemning him to this hateful scheme. It was a circular argument between the pair, and ongoing battle that had really extended to the length of a war, and the young man was on the losing side.

“I have told you, repeatedly. The doctor says it will not do. The family line must carry on, and I haven’t the heart to do it. Father's will was very clear about the requirements, and we can't let the line die out.” Mycroft did not sound bitter, though he must have been somewhere underneath all that feigned indifference. The Ice Man, so caught up in duty, leaving room for nothing else. 

“Well, in that he is right at least.” Sherlock winced. It was a low thing to say, not his brother’s fault entirely that his heart wasn’t going to allow him the exertion necessary to find a bride, join with her, and then play at fatherhood on top of his other responsibilities with the House of Lords. 

“Enough, Sherlock. It is done. Arrangements have been made. We have a visitor coming, tomorrow.” Mycroft did not sound like someone that was winning a victory, and it was true that he did not truly wish to see his younger sibling unhappy. He did not appear resigned though either, and when he was in this state, there was no convincing him. 

At that, Sherlock spun wildly away from the window, a hand raised and clutching at the air to his right. “What do you mean arrangements have been made? Who is coming?” His voice was tight, strained, and there was enough energy radiating off of him to cause even Mycroft to flinch. Because though he knew it was bound to bear no fruit, argue on, Sherlock would. He took a single step forward, advancing without it feeling to him it did any good for his cause.

“You will recall Lord Blackwood?” Mycroft arched one eyebrow, but did not get to go further with his explanation, because Sherlock let out a real shriek then. 

“Blackwood?! Lord Blackwood?! But…but he’s an old man. He’s…he’s seventy, if he’s a day. You can’t be serious? No! No! I won’t do it. Do you hear me?!” Sherlock was vibrating now, and pacing in a short path that threatened the already somewhat threadbare Aubusson carpet laid over the overly polished hardwood. Fueled by the idea of this sort of abomination being put on him, he stalled on the worst of the worn patches, the red almost undefinable these days from the beige that made up the larger part of the pattern. 

Mycroft drew in a breath, attempting to remain civil, if not congenial with his sibling. “You are being irrational. Lord Blackwood is sixty-two. He is a fine man, always supported father when he was down, and will…” The older of the pair had resumed his placid expression, sure of his position, in more ways than one.

“And will continue to support yours bills and vote with you in the House. Yes, I know.” So this is what it had come to, and Sherlock couldn’t believe his lot. He wanted to bite at Mycroft, to cut him to the quick, but he had no ammunition at his disposal. Mycroft had the upper hand, as usual, and Sherlock was torn between his self righteous anger and despair.

“Don’t you care that he will leave me a widower in a few years? Possibly saddled with a string of children to raise alone? Or is that what you’re hoping for? Hoping he will grow so tired of me that it kills him, and then I will have all his money, and someone new will buy me off you? A never-ending cycle, and I’m the brood mare with no say in it?” Sherlock’s omega status was something that was normally not brought into the relationship between them, for his mind was as sharp as Mycroft’s, and he’d been given great leniency in his studies and life overall. At least, in all other situations.

“You are being irrational. Our parents allowed you too much leeway. He wouldn’t be capable of that many children. One or two at the most. Just enough to ensure…” Mycroft knew Sherlock was aware of this, but right now he did expend just a margin of energy to advance his own cause, and to infuse the air with enough Alpha scent to hopefully render Sherlock less combative. 

“To ensure that I am carrying on the legacy! Yes, I know.” Sherlock was taking rapid breaths, so angry that his face was blotching, a very marked difference than its normal shade of milky white that half the mommas and daughters in the county envied him for possessing. The pheromones in the air were getting to him, but he wanted – no needed- to continue. His future happiness depended upon it. 

“No! I tell you again, I won’t let you sell me off like I’m Betsy!” Their father’s prized mare, who while also considered quite a prize, was unaware her name was being thrown around in conversation about breeding. 

“Betsy is incapable of bearing, you know that.” Ever the pragmatic was Mycroft, and it was entirely the wrong thing to say. “Now, as I was saying…”

“I don’t care what you were saying, don’t you understand that?” Sherlock was almost grabbing at his riot of dark curls, ones he kept unfashionably long despite the preferred current styles sported by young men his age that were attempting to be The Beau or Admiral. “No! I won’t. I won’t, damn you!” To this point, Sherlock had been holding a book of poetry, the volume he had been enjoying when Mycroft invaded the territory and the demands. Now, the same volume tumbled to the floor, spine so soft from the book being opened over the year, that the whole thing was splayed –very much like Sherlock- to Mycroft’s eagle eyes. 

Mycroft was just about to start up once more, when Sherlock reached to save his precious book with a look of apologetic horror, and then rose to race past him to the door that led to the hallway. It slammed behind the younger man, and his older brother lifted the letter he had received only that morning. “If you had only let me explain…” Shaking his head, Mycroft circled back behind his desk, and sat down on the slightly cracked leather, lifting his quill to sketch out his reply. 

o0o0o0o0o

After storming from his brother’s library cum office, Sherlock had stalled out on the other side of the door. He felt less like a brood mare actually, and more a snared rabbit, his heart pounding in a way likely to result soon in his head doing the same. He wasn’t normally so quick to temper or ready to fight, and it was taking a toll. Truly mirroring the ghastly weather outdoors now, he let loose tears that he had just managed to avoid spilling in front of his brother. 

It was concern that Mycroft might step from the room and discover them after all, that had him stumble forward, booted feet making light work of hurrying to the main staircase and furiously pounding his way upward to the third level of the country estate. The book was held against his chest, musician’s fingers stroking the green cover, much as if it was the book that needed the comfort in this scenario. It was his copy of Shelley, and there was no way he would leave it behind when he was dragged from the house to live with the hateful Lord Blackwood. 

He didn’t slam the door in his wake once entering his own domain, but sagged backward against it, all but drained of all the energy that had just moments ago been keeping him wound tight as any ormolu clock. Perhaps that was why his ever-changing-colored eyes tracked to the one on the mantelpiece above the fireplace of his room, a delicate chime to apprising him of the half hour in just a minute. The rest of the room might have helped his mood under more ordinary circumstances, his table of experiments in pride of place behind a screen on the opposite side of the space, the calming blue that dominated the four poster bed's arrangement of pillows and bedspread, the matching chair that he sat in light into the nights, reading from books of gothic romance. 

The clock had him arrested. Time. He didn’t have much of it. Tomorrow, Mycroft had said. His esteemed bridegroom was expected, and Sherlock would be sold off. For a foolish moment only, he did contemplate running away. He could pack a few things in his plainest valise, and spirit himself away on horseback. Sherlock was an adept rider, testimony to years of trying to escape other things Mycroft had attempted to make him do. 

His head was starting to hurt, but the tears were still collecting on his cheeks, and he hauled himself up onto the window seat to look down at the fountain that was coursing over in the courtyard below. The Eros statue that composed the central piece was as erect as ever, gathering moss at an atrocious rate, now that the estate was down to just two men to tend the grounds. 

“But, not this time. Damn, the weather, and damn Mycroft, and damn you Lord Blackwood.” The clock, as if to mock him, did chime in a lively way then. Hearing it, Sherlock drew his long limbs toward his chest, trying to formulate a different plan to keep him from the wedded state. The book was set aside, for it would not be giving him any real answers on how to improve his lot.

Unbidden, the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson entered the room. She had been Sherlock’s nurse when he was growing up, and though he was long out of short clothes, the household budget had been stretched in its meager fashion to make sure that she was able to stay on. She was the only person that could calm Sherlock down when he was in one of his dark moods or a rare strop like the one that had taken hold this afternoon.  
Bearing a tray, the good woman placed it gingerly on the side table by the only comfortable chair in the room. “I expect he’s told you then?” Liberties taken by the oldest confidante, she didn’t stay silent or try to pretend everything was all roses. Preparing the tea as Sherlock liked it, and resting a couple of biscuits on the saucer besides, she extended the balm to the restless young man.

Sherlock’s curls tumbled in their unruly way as he shook his head, yet he took the restorative items for what they were, and bit viciously down into one of the wafers. “He just…I can’t.” She knew, of anyone in the household, Mrs. Hudson knew. 

“He’s not your young man. Yes, I know.” And there it was. Another detail that Sherlock had managed to keep under wraps to all but the kindly woman before him. 

“He’s not…my young man. He never was. Never will be.” All the fight had gone out of him, his eyes lackluster now as he looked past the cup in his hand, at nothing that was real. 

“Hmm, yes. So, you’ve said.” Doubt rang heavily in her tone, but she looked as sympathetic as before. Not that her sympathy could fix the situation of the family finances or the young man’s heart, but he had it anyway. “Drink your cuppa, and I will come back later to help you.” Sherlock didn’t have a valet, an expense too much for someone that didn’t normally care about his state of dress, and the money had been the one that probably had resulted in Mrs. Hudson being allowed to stay on. She didn’t dress him of course, but she did tie the strings at his neck, and try to make sure his cravat and boots were at least somewhat presentable. 

Sherlock was watching out the window again, nodding vaguely, trying to sort out his predicament now that he had sustenance and was reminded of someone being on his side. The tea went cold in the cup, and nothing more was eaten of the biscuits, but after he realized it and sat the cup and saucer down, he still had no solution. Mrs. Hudson sighed, but said no more, and exited the room to leave Sherlock to his dismal state. 

The clock had struck the hour when he moved again, limp and feeling lifeless, pooling himself on the floor beside his bed. To the untrained eye, Sherlock was a young man of coltish proportions, all arms and legs and not enough meat on his bones. In reality, he tended to wear his shirts too loose, his trousers too tight, and his waistcoats with a tear or stain from some experiment or another. Since he tended to never throw any of his garments away, they were an odd hodge-podge of what remained from the wardrobe is mother purchased three years prior, and the few newer items Mrs. Hudson had insisted he needed to be somewhat presentable. Still, his tendency to just continue growing, had not abated. For just a moment, he wondered if his groom would even care what he looked like, then recalled Lord Blackwood, and shuddered with revulsion.

Pushing at what should be the drawer pull on his nightstand, and then sliding out a section of wood that from the exterior looked like just an inlay of ivory, a smaller drawer popped out on the side of the furniture. His nimble fingers extracted the tiny box of treasures that he kept hidden inside, the lid lifted, and the contents gently explored until he had drawing in hand. 

Sherlock had done it himself, from memory. It was just lines and shading, but had it possessed the sandy blonde hair and dark blues eyes of the actual individual, it could scarcely be more important to the creator. His young man, as Mrs. Hudson had called him. Wearing his smart uniform from his time serving Nelson, and all the medals from his time in service to the crown. Sherlock had been twelve when he drew it, had met the man only a few times, but the soldier had never been forgotten. Five years. 

It was a reminder of something else though. Something he could never have. The soldier in the drawing was dead, and Sherlock was meant for an aged paragon of the realm. He began to cry more in earnest then, a drop of it landing on the fine paper, and he carefully wiped off the staining agent so it didn’t incur too much damage. Pursing his lips, he tried to improve the drying time, and carefully put the drawing back in with his other important relics. This too, he would take with him, wherever he was sequestered.

Nothing to be done, not really, but his resolve remained. He’d fight. His brother. His husband. Whoever he had to fight, he would. It might be on foreign land, far from his childhood home, but he’d fight the man that was foolish enough to purchase the young man. 

With a new sense of purpose, not to mention of self, Sherlock put the box back into the nightstand and sped over to the experiment table. It would only take an hour of mixing, and another three for the substance to reach its needed state, and Lord Blackwood would no doubt lose all interest in his intended. He'd have to cover the taste of the draught after all, so it could be used in anything that might pass the old man's lips. Certain he was on the right course now, Sherlock began his preparations looking quite smug, all the tears dried with the traces of no concern to him. 

"Just a bit of Epson salts, a dose of Alexandrian senna, some bruised ginger..." Musing to himself, he was still careful to make sure the measurements he added were more precise than the words as he whispered them with a somewhat jaded glee. Yes, Lord Blackwood was in for a rare surprise when he visited tomorrow, and Sherlock could not wait to see the results of his preferred type of labor.


End file.
